


heat wave

by theredhoodie



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredhoodie/pseuds/theredhoodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can it even <i>get</i> this hot in Oregon? Parker isn't enjoying this heat wave and pops into the restaurant to try to find something to both ease the temperature and her hunger. She only ends up with one of the two sated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heat wave

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. A mix of Eliot's speech to Parker about what food means to him paired with me reading this amazing FDTD fanfiction and this was born between the wee hours of 1 and 3am. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely Jessie, even though she doesn't know the fandom! Thanks darlin'.

It's so warm that Parker can feel the beads of sweat slide down the back of her calves, slipping slowly like spiders. She's already tried standing under the cold water in the shower, but even that starts to feel warm after a while. Her hair dries almost immediately after getting out of the stall, so she piles it on top of her head with pins and a band, before slipping into the lightest piece of clothing she owns: a flowy summer dress, the color of pearls with maroon blossoms scattered about, with thin straps fitting over her bare shoulders. It has an accordion pleat bottom half that brushes softly over the tops of her knees.

She lets out a breath before she begins to dance and twirl across the minimalistic bedroom, the skirt's soft material skimming her skin, causing just enough of a breeze to make her feel a little less sticky and a little more human. However, with all her twirling and moving, she may as well be swimming through air, rather than moving freely.

It is too hot to eat. The Leverage team is elsewhere. She doesn't particularly care where they are at the moment, but Parker knows that eating is something she should do, no matter the weather. Knowing Eliot would hate for her to walk into the restaurant in her bare feet, she pulls on suede ankle boots and floats down the stairs. She swears that the railing on the stairs is slick with humidity, but realizes it is, in fact, her clammy hands. She makes a face and keeps her hands off her dress, knowing that even if she wipes off her palms they will just be moist again in a moment.

She flicks her hair away from her face and hums a mindless tune under her breath until she slips into the restaurant. It's empty. No one wants to move, eat, or do much of anything in this heat. Parker lets out a breath into the silence, her boots clicking against the hard wood floor.

She steps closer to the bar. But then she hears something so she stop, lips pursed. Spinning around on the balls of her feet, she tilts her head toward the kitchen door. Pressing her hands against the smooth wood, she leans her head against it and holds her breath.

Someone is singing softly. Parker listens for a while to the soothing tones, not really catching the lyrics, but enjoying the sound. She closes her eyes slowly and half smiles. She looses herself and the door squeaks, moving inward. Her eyebrows raise, but she plays it off and spins into the kitchen.

The singing stops short and Parker's eyes settle on Eliot. He's half frozen in the middle of the room in a wife beater, bandana and khakis hanging low on his hips.

"Parker," he growls at her in annoyance, slender metal spoon in hand.

"Hey, sorry," Parker said, her arms flailing, trying to distract him. "I was just looking for something to eat and I heard singing. You were singing." Parker is nothing but direct. Her eyes flicker from his spoon to the counters around the kitchen. "What're you making?"

Eliot shakes his head and waves the spoon at her. "No. Leave. I'm doin' stuff here."

Parker steps a little closer and peers into the metallic bowl on the counter. "What're you making?" she repeats, reaching out a hand toward the bowl.

Eliot reaches out and slaps his hand around her wrist. "Don't touch," he says.

Parker raises her eyebrows and looks at him straight in the eye. He has sweat dripping down his temples. "Now that you've said that, I really want to," she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He doesn't blink, and she takes it as a challenge. She twirls and twists out of his grip, looping her finger around the edge of the bowl and dragging it closer.

" _Parker_." Eliot slides up behind her, grabbing her wrists and flattening her palms against the countertop.

The counter is cool under her fingers and she lets out a small sigh, especially when she sees the half melted chocolate in the bowl. "Chocolate, my favorite," she whispers, curling her fingers against the countertop. She tries to take a step backward, but he's right there, the fabric of her skirt clinging to his pants with barely a centimeter between them.

"I told you, Parker, food is my thing," Eliot says, his breath hot on her neck.

"I know, I'm sorry," she says, but she isn't. She twists her hands in his grip, but his hold is firm and he doesn't let her go. "But it's hot upstairs."

"It's hot…here," he says, in that uncertain way, with that little waver in his voice that she's only begun to understand—it means that he's been taken aback by something. It's rare for that very reason: Eliot isn't caught off guard often and most of the time it has to do with him enjoying something, like sharing a joke with Hardison or…

"Yep," she says, popping the 'p' and pressing her back against his chest. The fabric of her dress is thin, and she can feel the heat from him radiating right through it. "I should let you get back to your art." She makes the suggestion. She's been learning from Sophie a number of neat tricks, this being one of them.

"Yeah, you should," he says and lets go of her. He takes a step back, but she doesn't go to  _leave_  the room.

Instead, she dips her finger into the chocolate, still warm—from the stove or just the sheer temperature of the room, she doesn't know—and pops it between her lips.

Eliot growls out her name, reaching a hand around her to snatch the bowl away, but she's already halfway twisted and lifting herself onto the counter. She crosses her ankles for a brief moment, letting her legs swing in the air. She holds the bowl against her stomach, a mischievous, challenging glint in her eye.

Eliot sets his jaw and closes the space between them. He moves and so does she, spreading her legs to wrap them around his hips and force him closer, locking her ankles at the small of his back. He steadies himself with hands on either side of her and looks at her with a softness that he doesn't let anyone but the team see.

Dimples dig into her cheeks as she dips her finger into the chocolate again, lifting it and laying the pad of her finger against her tongue just in time to stop a drip from staining her dress. She closes her lips around her finger and lazily licks off the cocoa.

One of Eliot's hands settles on her hip. This dress was the most appropriate of choices. It's thin enough that she swears she can feel the callouses on his skin, but maybe she's just replacing sensations with memory.

"Give me that," he says, breaking the lingering silence and reaching for the bowl. She lets him take it, and he sets it down on the counter next to her. He slides that hand around the small of her back and pulls her closer to him, toward the edge of the counter.

"This is a kitchen," he says, as if she doesn't know that. She nods and slides her palms over his pecs to his neck. It's almost too hot to feel anything, yet she can feel the way his hands press against her skin, scooting her closer still. She brushes her fingertips on the underside of his jaw as he squeezes her hip and hastily slides that hand to the back of her head.

Either he pitches forward or she does, she doesn't know, but their lips clash together for a brief moment. Parker parts her lips and breathes in, hot and sweet before she kisses him again, harder this time, her hands pulling the bandana free and letting his hair loose. He slides his hand up her spine and swipes his tongue across her bottom lip. Parker pushes his hair away from his neck, gathering it in her hands. She pauses to breathe, pressing her forehead against his, leaving the taste of chocolate in both of their mouths.

He drags his rough fingers over her hip and down her thigh, pushing the flimsy material as he moves his hand back up.

"What were you making?" she asks, breathless—half from the kissing and half from the air that was so thick you could chew it—a sparkling smile overtaking her face. She opens her eyes for a brief moment, but he still isn't answering her. Eliot moves his hand to her cheek and digs his fingers into the hair behind her ear, pulling her close to kiss her again, entrapping her lips and forcing them apart. She pulls herself even closer, tightening her thighs over his hips. He moves his hand over the top of her thigh and his fingers press against the fiery flesh off her inner thigh.

Parker breaks off the kiss with a sharp intake of breath and a fistful of hair in her hand. "Whoa, cowboy, I came down here for food, not for a show," she says. She isn't sure if she's making sense. The heat may be getting to her.

"I think both'd suit you fine," Eliot says, lifting his hand from her leg and dipping his finger into the chocolate. He's not so cautious with it and ends up smearing a line down her neck.

Parker's eyes widen in surprise. His hand moves back to cup her head and his other rests against the counter. She tilts her head and his tongue runs a line up the column of her throat, over the smudge of chocolate. Parker moans in the back of her throat and her eyelids flutter, her hand circling around the wrist holding her head steady. "Oh- _kay_ ," she breathes out, just before he kisses her on the mouth and she tastes the chocolate and the salt from her own skin.

She sucks his bottom lip between hers and gently bites down with her teeth, arching her back and pushing herself as close to him as possible without falling off the counter. Everything it sweet sugar and tangy salt, and she wants more. She retrieves her hand from his neck and takes his other hand, leaning back just enough to lift it and wrap her lips around his chocolate-coated finger.

Eliot's breath hitches as he moves his other hand down her side, pushing up the side of her dress, his palm hot against her own steamy skin. The chocolate bursts against her tongue and she lets go of his hand, curling her fingers around the back of his neck once again, kissing him with lips edged in chocolate. He kisses and licks away the sweetness, splaying his fingers across the small of her back and moving his other hand to her inner thigh once again.

"This is a kitchen, Parker," he breathes out heavyily against her lips. She nods, their foreheads almost touching but not quite.

"I know, I'm ruining your art," she pants out while his fingers slide closer to the apex between her thighs. Her head is a dizzy mess from heat and lack of oxygen, but she doesn't care. She bunches his hair in her fingers.

"You're art enough," he says, and she feels a shiver ripple through her from head to toe.

"Good to kno— _oh_ ," she gasps in surprise as he slips a finger inside her knuckles-deep without warning. Her head tilts back and she loosens her thighs around his waist, moving just enough for him to gain some leverage. "You should—ah—do this—art thing more—uh—often." She barely manages to get the words out. They're both soaked with sweat and so much heat she didn't realize just how wet she was and just how opportune her decision that the fewer clothes the better would turn out.

"You should interrupt me more often," he rumbles as she splays her fingers over the space between his shoulder blades. She lets out a small yelp when he slips a second finger inside of her. What he can do with limited space and two single digits is an art in itself.

Some hair falls from the pins on top of her head and tickle her shoulders. Her heart beats like a wild bird in her chest and she doesn't say a thing as she takes her hands from him and leans back against the counter, her palms flat against the smooth surface for support. She rolls her hips, a small whimper slipping out from between her lips because she's already so close and it's not fair. He twists his fingers, digs them deep and twists again—and hits her sweet spot. Sweat droplets make trails down her chest, disappearing between her breasts and sliding down to her navel while she breathes hard and tries to stay on the counter.

"You really know how to work those things," she squeezes out, panting. She's so close, the coil is set to spring and even in this heat she can feel  _everything_. He reaches for her neck again, pulling her against him. Her hands find his shoulders and her nails dig into his skin when he flicks her clit with his thumb and she gasps out some form of " _oh God_ " mixed with some version of his name that must sound like heaven to his ears, by the way the corners of his mouth tug up into a small smile. Her thighs tighten around him and she squeezes her eyes shut, her forehead resting against his.

"Eliot," she breathes out against his lips. He kisses her and moves his thumb in a circle, causing shudder after shudder to rattle her from the roots of her hair to toe the tips of her toes. She curls her toes in her boots as she slides her hands over his shoulders. Her limbs tingle, all the way down to the tips of her fingers—she's sure that, if she could get any warmer, she would.

Parker wraps her arms around his neck as he slides his fingers out of her. She presses a hot and needy kiss against his lips and slips off the counter, forcing him back half a step and brushing up against his pants. She molds her body against his and relishes the moan she catches with her lips when she slides her hand down between them.

"This could totally be my thing," she tells him.

"What thing?" he asks, not stopping her as she unbuttons his pants with one hand, nimble fingers of a thief working their own special brand of magic against him through the material before they fall to his ankles.

"The thing I like." Their faces are close, noses touching, eyes hooded, both sets of lips smudged and tinged with the heavy kisses. She trails her fingers, feather light, down his erection and she presses herself half against him so she can move her hand over him. "What do you think?" She half-smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth, the prickle of five o'clock shadow tickling her lips.

He lets out a breath that feels cool against her skin and slides a hand down the slope of her neck and down her arm, but he doesn't do anything to stop or help the motions she's making with her hand. "Yeah," he says, though it doesn't answer what she's asking. His other arm slings across her back, his fingers pressing against her hip.

She's warm all over, face flushed. "Are you feeling what I'm feeling?" she asks, paraphrasing his words back to him.

"Shit," he mumbles, and she isn't the only one left with weak knees. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and mumbles something against her skin along the lines of feeling magical.

She cracks him like a safe, in record time, and without any extra effort. He comes into her hand and she doesn't care, it's just another wet, sticky thing to add to the ever-growing list of wet, sticky things that she started today.

"You should do what you like more often," Eliot says finally, once she lets him go and moves to step away. His voice is a million shades of gravel and rumble, and Parker grins through the short, chaste kiss he lays on her lips.

Parker steps away from him and to the stainless steel sink. She relishes the blast of cold water before it dissipates into lukewarm. Eliot buttons up his pants and slides up behind her.

"This is a kitchen," Eliot points out for the umpteenth time—as if she's forgotten the last several mentions.

Parker rolls her eyes and flicks excess water into the sink. He slides his hands up her thighs, over her hips to her waist. "Your point being?"

"No point," he says, taking her spot under the faucet as she twirls away and retrieves the bowl of chocolate. It's too hot for it to harden, so she dips a finger and licks it off. She smiles and whirls around suddenly, just as he turns off the water and slicks his hair back with his hands.

"What were you making?" she asks, trying hard not to grin too widely.

He shakes his head and motions toward the door. "Out."

"Eliot," she whines—a rare feat—but backs away anyway.

"Now, c'mon," he waves at her like he's  _shoo_ ing her out. She childishly sticks her tongue out at him in return. "Look, see, I've gotta clean now, so unless you want to help—" She bolts out the door as soon as the word  _clean_  was out of his mouth, leaving Eliot standing in the middle of the room alone.

Eliot shakes his head and only manages to move half a step away from the sink before he hears her musical laughter filter through the kitchen door.


End file.
